


Take a Life (Take My Hand)

by ruxian



Series: Book of Pain [3]
Category: Leverage
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, Pre-Relationship, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-18 17:55:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18254924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruxian/pseuds/ruxian
Summary: The man at Eliot’s feet was definitely dead.





	Take a Life (Take My Hand)

**Author's Note:**

> idk what this is. the idea popped into my head at like 2am last night and i just finished it tonight. it is 4 am. 
> 
> i hope you enjoy anyway!!! <3 
> 
> no beta we die like men

The man at Eliot’s feet was definitely dead. 

There was too much blood; on the floor, on the man, on _Eliot_ for him not to be. 

Even with his back turned, Hardison could see how heavily Eliot was breathing, could see the blood splattered on his jeans, could see how badly his hands, his always steady hands, were shaking. 

Hardison could barely breathe. 

He wanted to reach out, snatch Eliot into his arms and calm him down, pull him away from the gore at his boots and shield him from his own fists, but he didn’t think such a thing would be welcome. 

“Eliot?” He whispered, taking a half-step forward and freezing when Eliot whipped around, blue eyes wide and frantic. 

There were flecks blood at the corner of his mouth, going up onto his cheek and nose. He looked terrified. 

Parker came rushing around the corner, skidding to a stop when she saw everything. Her eyes darted between him, Eliot, and the man on the floor. Something in her gaze hardened at the sight, but she ignored the scene in favor of what they needed to do, in true Parker fashion. 

God, he loved her. 

“Do whatever you have to, but we have to leave in ten minutes,” she announced, turning on her heel the second the last word left her mouth. Her tone was serious, and they both knew better than to argue with her. 

Eliot turned, kneeling down and getting his jeans even more stained, but didn’t move otherwise. 

“You should go,” Eliot says, voice rough and devoid of any emotion. It sent chills down Hardison’s spine. 

“I can hel–”

“Go!”

Hardison let out a harsh breath through his nose, but left anyway, shaking his head as he stomped down the hallway. 

 

. . .

 

When they got home, Parker was out the window almost immediately. Hardison didn’t blame her one bit. 

Eliot, still in those damn bloody clothes, sits heavily on the couch, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. His expression is stormy, body taught like a wire, ready to snap at any moment. 

Eliot doesn’t acknowledge him as he sits on the other cushion, just takes in a quiet, sharp breath. 

Hardison takes a moment to take in his friend, the man he loves even if he won’t admit it. He’s able to see the bruises that will bloom on his skin later, the blood smeared on his face, like Eliot tried to wipe it and failed to do anything more than make a mess. His beautiful blue eyes look haunted, trapped, _scared_. 

It’s a horrible sight to see. 

“Are you okay?” Hardison dares to whisper, licking his lips and wringing his hands together. 

“Fine,” Eliot forces out, the lie hard and razor sharp through his teeth. 

“Right,” Hardison agrees, a heavy amount of skepticism in his voice. Eliot blinks, but doesn’t turn to face him. “You… you still have blood on–”

Eliot’s up like a shot before he can finish his sentence, marching into the kitchen and shoving his hands into the sink, the tap on as hot as he could make it. His breathing was fast, harsh, through his nose like he was trying to calm himself down. 

Slowly, Hardison steps into the kitchen, making sure his footsteps made plenty of noise over the water, even if he never quite managed those fox-steps Parker taught him. He leans against the counter next to Eliot, quietly watching as he angrily scrubs at his fists with a vegetable brush. It can’t feel pleasant. 

Eliot glances at him out of the corner of his eye, eyebrows pinching closer together. 

“I’m fine,” he tries, pumping more soap onto his palm, “you don’t gotta, _watch me_ , Hardison, I’m _fine_ ,” Eliot hisses, sounding more like he’s trying to convince himself of that fact than Hardison. “It’s fine.”

He’s never seen Eliot like this. He’s seen Eliot hurt, scared, angry, begrudgingly-happy, but never… never like _this_. So scared to-the-bone his hands can barely hold the brush, eyes never quite this hyper-focused on one task. Never seen his shoulders quite so tight. 

Never seen him scrub his knuckles to the point it looks like his skin is going raw. 

“I can’t–I can’t–I-It won’t–” Eliot’s muttering under his breath, sounding like he’s going to break at any second. “I can’t get it _off_ , it won’t _come off_ –” he spits, breathing turning frantic as he scrubs harder and harder and–

Hardison’s seen enough.

“El, _Eliot_ , c’mon babe, stop, it’s okay,” he says, grabbing the hitter’s, _his_ hitter’s hands away from the scrub brush and scalding water. “Baby, come on, you’re gonna hurt yourself,” he pleads, the terms of endearment slipping in without much of a thought, wrestling the scrub brush out of Eliot’s strong grasp. 

Ever so gently, Hardison takes Eliot’s battered hands in his own, trying to ignore how warm they were from the hot water. He turns off the tap and nabs the dishcloth from the oven handle. He’ll probably get bitched at for using it wrong later, but right now all he needs to do is get the blood out from under Eliot’s fingernails. Making sure to take his time, Hardison firmly cleans his hitter’s hands, taking advantage of the moment to commit every scar, every wrinkle and line and callus to memory. He’s careful around his cuticles, around the tips of those talented fingers, knowing how much care Eliot himself puts into his hands. It scares him how bad those fingers are shaking. (He can’t say his are much better, but he has to try, for Eliot’s sake.) He’s extra careful around his knuckles, very mindful of the way they’re basically split. He doesn’t particularly want to think about what he can see there, so he doesn’t. 

He can still feel that tight, wound, petrified energy running through Eliot’s veins, keeping him bolt upright and breathing like he just came back from the Boston Marathon. So, he massages his fingers into his hands, giving them the same care he occasionally gave his Nana when her Arthritis got real bad. Lord knows Eliot deserves a little pampering. 

When he finally feels that Eliot’s strong hands are clean, and he can’t see a single speck of blood, he bends down, one hand still holding both of Eliot’s, and grabs the first-aid kit from under the sink. Still one-handed, Hardison opens the kit up and finds their antibiotic ointment, gauze, and medical tape. 

It should probably worry him that’s he’s gotten good at bandaging Eliot’s hands, but after all these years, all it does it bring him a sense of calm. It gives him a task, a way to take care of the man who’s always taking care of him. Eliot never protests when Hardison applies the antibiotic, never so much as a hiss when it’s cold, but Hardison always whispers a soft ‘sorry’ anyway. 

At least his hands have started to steady. That’s progress. 

When the last bit of tape is applied, and he feels satisfied with his work, Hardison finally looks up to meet Eliot’s eye. 

And immediately wishes he didn’t. 

Those blue eyes, the ones he loves so much, usually so full of life and emotion even when the rest of his face is stormy or closed off (it’s the eyes, _it’s always the eyes, always watch the eyes–_ ), are full of tears. Bloodshot and wide in a way that just looks… _wrong_ on Eliot’s face. 

He’s seen Eliot cry, just once, and he thought then and agrees now that Eliot crying is a terrible, horrible thing that should never happen. 

Eliot’s looking at him like he’s waiting for orders, waiting to be _punished_ , and all Hardison can do is frown and swallow back bile. 

There’s still a bit of blood on Eliot’s cheek, he notices. 

‘ _Good_ ’, he thinks, grabbing the dishcloth once more; it gives him time to stall. Time to think of something, _anything_ to say, to do. 

He’s gentler than he was on his hands, and takes the time to wipe the few stray tears Eliot couldn’t stop away, but never mentions them. By the time that blood is washed away, too, he hasn’t thought of anything. 

Eliot, though, apparently has. 

“I,” he croaks, swallowing hard and refusing to look Hardison in the eye, “I didn’t… I _shouldn’t_ have–” Eliot clears his throat. Hardison takes a deep breath. “You were never, _never_ supposed to see–supposed to see that sort of–” Eliot, desperately, looks around the kitchen, like he’s trying to find his bravery, before finally meeting Hardison’s eyes. “You were never supposed to see _me_ like that.”

Eliot says it like it’s an apology, like he’s repenting his sins. 

Hardison wants to say that it’s okay, there’s nothing to apologize for, nothing to forgive, but he knows that would be a lie. And he swore a long time ago that he would rather die than lie to Eliot. Not like that. 

It’s _not_ okay. Eliot’s not supposed to do _that_ anymore, which means the fact that he _did_ is incredibly scary, for a whole bunch of fucked up reasons. 

The truth is he scared the hell out of Hardison. Certainly scared the hell out of Parker. He never wants to see something like that again. 

But, he also knows that if he interrupts Eliot now, he’ll never get a chance to see this again. Hear him, so open and flayed and raw, again. So, Hardison keeps his mouth shut, and lets Eliot say what he needs to say. 

“He was going to kill you,” Eliot chokes out, blue eyes going down to the floor. “He was going to kill you, Parker… Got… _excited_ talking about how he was gonna make you suffer, and I couldn’t, I _couldn’t_ –” The anguish on Eliot’s face hurts him deep in his chest, a stab through his ribcage. “I couldn’t let him get anywhere near you, I had to–”

He cuts Eliot off, pulling him close to his chest and holding him there in as strong a grip as he dares. Carefully, he cradles the back of Eliot’s head, fingers tangling in his hair as he clutches his skull. Eliot feels fragile in his arms, and that alone scares him half to death. There’s a deep, wet, shuddering breath taken in the junction of his shoulder, and then Eliot is clinging to him with bruising strength. That’s fine. He can take it. 

“It’s okay, El. We’re safe, it’s okay,” he starts to whisper, keeping it up like a mantra as the man, the pillar of strength who never breaks, falls apart right there in his arms. “It’s alright, babe, we’re okay, _you’re_ okay, you kept us safe, we’re okay, we’re safe, just breathe, baby, just breathe.”

When Eliot’s leaning heavily into him, Hardison backs them up into the corner of the counter and slides down to the floor, ignoring the drawer handles poking him in the side and spine until Eliot is tucked safely into his lap. 

Eliot doesn’t make a sound as he cries, but the way his shirt is distinctively getting damper at the neck and Eliot’s chest shudders every so often doesn’t leave him wondering. It’s okay, Hardison can make enough noise for the both of them. 

There are a few tears on Hardison’s face, too, but he just buries them in a kiss to the top of Eliot’s hair. He can worry about his own emotions later; right now his only priority is keeping Eliot together in one piece. 

Eventually, Eliot’s breaths even out and his grip relaxes. He doesn’t seem inclined on leaving Hardison’s lap, but that’s fine, Hardison is more than happy to keep him right where he is for as long as Eliot will let him. 

“Sorry,” Eliot murmurs after a moment, making an aborted movement to get up, “I’ll–”

“Keep yo’ ass right where it is,” Hardison says simply, leaving no room for argument and tightening his grip around the hitter’s waist. 

“Damnit, Hardison,” Eliot growls half-heartedly, but there’s a little bit a of a smirk in his voice and he relaxes back into him without a fuss. 

It might, _might_ bring a smile to his face. Might. A little one. (Or a big dopey grin, but who’s to call him on it?)

Parker finds them like that some time later, purposefully making a lot of noise as she stalks into the kitchen. Hardison can see on her face she was still upset, but she looked determined. 

He raises his eyebrows at her over Eliot’s mop of hair, a silent check to see if she’s calmed down. She purses her lips, but nods, and comes to kneel down beside them. 

Eliot’s gone very still in his grasp. 

“Are you back now?” Parker asks bluntly, frowning and blinking at Eliot when he turns his head to stare at her. He furrows his brows at her, but nods, and she nods back after a moment of searching Eliot’s face for a lie. 

“Good. Don’t do that again.” 

“I can’t promise that, Parker,” Eliot says, a bit desperately, “he was go–”

“I’m not talking about that!” Parker snaps, frustrated. Hardison reaches out and offers her one of his hands. Her grip is like iron. “I don’t _care_ about that. It’s your job to keep us safe, no matter what. But it’s _us_. We’re _us_. We _promised_ we wouldn’t hide from each other, wouldn’t _lie to each other_ ”

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“ _Hey_ , I didn’t lie ab–” 

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“Yes you did!” Parker exclaims, a bit breathless. “In the car, you said you were _fine_ , that you didn’t need help, but you _did_. You didn’t let us _help you_.” Parker sounds like she’s about to cry. “Why didn’t let us help you?” 

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“Parker… I–you don’t have–” 

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“I _know._ ” 

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Eliot’s jaw clicks shut. 

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“I think what Mama is trying to say here,” Hardison interjects, looking over at Parker to get her approval, “is that we _want_ to help you. We know you’re all tough and manly and whatever other testosterone bullshit was shoved down your throat by the Army, but it’s okay to not be okay, man. 

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“Today was tough on all of us. You scared the _hell_ outta me, man–and no, not the way you’re thinking, ain’t ever been scared of your broody ass, not like that, sit yo’ ass back down.” Hardison takes a deep breath to steady himself, and squeezes Parker’s hand. “We know you’re not that man anymore, Eliot. You don’t gotta pretend you’re okay with doing that now.” 

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“I would. For you two, I would do it a hundred times over.” Eliot promises, “you were just never supposed to _see_ –” 

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“That’s not what scared me,” Parker says, letting go of his hand and crawling up so she can look Eliot in the eye. “What scared me is the way you shut us off. You haven’t… you haven’t done that to us in so long, I can’t–” She pauses, chewing on her lip for a moment, two, then reaches up and cradles Eliot’s face between her hands. “Don’t do that to me, to _us_ again, okay?” 

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Eliot, on his part, looks stunned. 

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Readjusting, Eliot turns in Hardison’s lap so he can look at both of them, then grabs one of each of their hands. All three of them take in a deep breath and hold it, waiting for God knows what. 

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Eliot squeezes their fingers. 

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“Okay.” 

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_. . ._

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The three of them share the bed that night. 

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Eliot, tucked safe and sound in the middle of the tangle of limbs and blankets, keeps his face against Parker’s collar bone, fast asleep. Parker fell asleep petting Eliot’s hair, and Hardison is more than happy to watch his favorite people curl around each other. 

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This definitely will not be the last time they share this bed. 

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Not if Hardison has anything to say about it. 

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**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! 
> 
> you can come find me on tumblr as rux-ian or ruxwrites !! come say hi!! (pls i am so lonely


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